The ladies’ quilting club is out today,

their floral dresses, low brown leather heels
and stockings shuffle from a bus
to the restaurant. Sunday hats cover

graying buns, thinning heads. Their coffee cups
clink and shake to painted lips. They make me look
so young, their penciled brows, rouge,

heavy foundation creased. I hold
my daughter’s flawless hand past their table,
wait for our turn to collect change at the register.